


The Flambees Incident

by JKL_FFF



Series: The OFFICIAL ParaPines Trilogy [4]
Category: Gravity Falls, ParaNorman (2012), Parapines - Fandom
Genre: Accidents, Best Friends, Boyfriends, Boys Kissing, Comedy, Comedy of Errors, Dialogue Heavy, Disasters, Explosions, Fire, First Dates, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, though it's a secret that it's actually a date from one of them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:42:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26078938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JKL_FFF/pseuds/JKL_FFF
Summary: 12 years after the events of "Through a Slender Opening",Dipper makes a realization ...So Dipper makes a reservation ...But then Dipper makes an accidental conflagration ...Everything was *supposed* to be perfect.Everything was *actually* a disaster.
Relationships: Norman Babcock/Dipper Pines
Series: The OFFICIAL ParaPines Trilogy [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1886758
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	The Flambees Incident

In the sodium orange glow of a streetlamp, beneath a bus stop’s plastic awning, Dipper and Norman waited for the 11:17. They were both dripping wet. This wouldn’t have been a particularly unusual sight to see at a bus stop, except the night was clear and cloudless. In fact, being early September, it hadn’t rained in about 4 days. So, ironically, the only puddles to be found were those beneath the bus stop, dripping off the young men’s slacks.

“… That was, um … c-certainly ‘ _an unforgettable experience_ ’.” Norman tried to sound jovial—tried to cut through some of the tension hanging over his best friend like a storm cloud—but failed. “Like they, er … _Exactly_ like they advertised, at least. ‘An unforgettable experience of appetence!’ So, um … n-no _false_ advertising there, at least. Heh heh … heh …”

Dipper just stood there, arms crossed, and glowered in the direction the 11:17 was supposed to come from. Technically, was supposed _to have already come from_ 7 minutes ago.

“… It’s, uh … It’s okay, man. That fancy place wasn’t really _our_ sp-speed, anyway. Like, frankly, it was _waaay_ too pretentious.”

“It’s _not_ okay. It’s not even _a little_ okay,” Dipper sulked. “It was supposed to be _perfect_ , but instead it was _a fricative disaster_.”

“Jeez. D-didn’t know you were looking forward to dinner at Flames on Ice _that much_.”

“I’m _not_ talking about _dinner_! Or … not _just_ about dinner. Though, it was _also_ a disaster, yeah, even though _we were supposed_ to have a great, fun time together at what’s supposed to be one of Portland’s coolest, funnest restaurants.”

“… I thought ‘funnest’ isn’t a word.”

“Whatever. You know what I mean.”

“Well, every time _I use it_ , you correct me with ‘most fun’.”

“ _Whatever_!” Unfolding his arms in an expansive gesture of indignation at the universe (which sent sprays of water arcing from his suitcoat’s sleeves), Dipper groused, “But _instead_ … Well, let’s count off _everything_ that went wrong there. #1, they couldn’t find my reservation, even though I made it _a week ago_ , because #2, they got the date and time _completely_ mixed up!”

“Yeah, that’s definitely on them,” Norman had to agree. “B-but _also_ an innocent mistake. Hopefully, the … like, the server or whatever w-won’t get _fired_ for mixing up ‘9 on the 6th’ with ‘6 on the 9th’.”

“No, they absolutely _should_ get fired for _that_! Who eats _dinner_ at _6 o’-fecund-clock_?!”

Norman gave his friend a cool, unimpressed look. “Statistically, I think _most_ people.”

“… ffff _fine_ , maybe it’s not a _fireable_ offense,” Dipper conceded, grumbling.

“Besides, they _did_ set up a s-special, extra table for us to make up for it.

“Which brings me to #3, actually. They stuck us on that rickety, little _end table_! It wasn’t even big enough for _both_ our dishes _and_ one of those little, like, romantic ambiance candles. _That’s_ how … how _teeny_ it was! And it was _right by_ the kitchen door, too, so people were _always_ coming and going! Loud, _not at all_ private—couldn’t even have a proper conversation. Might as well call that #4.”

Norman’s heart skipped a beat at the words “romantic ambiance”. But then, like before countless times throughout their shared adolescence, college years, and even the past year of being roommates, he dismissed the flash of hope and the pang of yearning; he’d accepted that both were foolish a long time ago—accepted that his best bet for romantic love lay elsewhere than with his best friend. So now he tried (but failed) yet again to sound jovial. “C-c’mon, man! It’s not like we even n- _needed_ one of those candles, right? Heh! Heh …”

Dipped looked away. Maybe awkwardly? Maybe blushing? It was hard to tell between the shadows and the sodium orange flow. “Which, of course, brings us to #5. Henceforth known as ‘The Flambées Incident’. An incident which shall live _in infamy_.”

“Y-yeah … Yeah, _that_ _qualifies_ as a fricative disaster,” Norman agreed with a grimace. For he could clearly see The Flambées Incident in his mind’s eye …

****

Flames on Ice prided itself on offering experimental and presentational dining; it was all about the combination of hots and colds in its dishes, and the spectacle of serving them accompanied by fire and ice, rising steam and sinking fog. This meant that, every 30 minutes, servers carrying bottles of strong liquors marched from the kitchen like a military vanguard, leading the way for a single torchbearer and carts of different, still caramelizing fruits. The idea was they’d all be flambéed with great ceremony in the center of the restaurant, where the patrons could all watch their desserts—cherries jubilee, bananas foster, mangos diablo, or pêches louis—be baptized in fire right before being served.

Unfortunately (while stammering something like “Look, uh … about my book’s advance, there’s s-something I should tell you. And also something I want … no, _I need_ to ask you. And, er, also something I’d like to g-give you.”), Dipper had stood up at exactly _the wrong moment_. So, while reaching into his pants pocket, he’d accidentally tripped the first liquor-carrying server of the dessert vanguard. Who’d then caused all subsequent servers to trip. And the torchbearer. And a pile-up of the carts of still caramelizing—still stovetop cooking—fruits.

The bottles, the torch, and the hot pans had all gone flying in a short, almost beautiful arc. The bottles had shattered, their contents mixing with each other on the ground and in sparkling, airborne droplets like alcoholic vapor about to condense and rain back down. Then the torch had ignited it all in a whoomfing mushroom cloud of blue and yellow flames. Finally, the pans and their contents (like fruity meteorites) had been sent spiraling outwards in all directions by this accidental and admittedly spectacular explosion to splatter stickily over the floor, against tablecloths and chairs, and upon more than a few patrons.

Unsurprisingly, with the better part of the restaurant technically aflame, the fire alarm had then gone off. And the overhead sprinklers, too. Which had, in turn, caused patrons and staff to panic so badly that the restaurant had become a pell-mell obstacle course towards the door that had kept Dipper and Norman from being able to exit until they’d been well and truly soaked.

****

“And #5 almost certainly ruined these suits, which is #6,” Dipper continued, dripping with exasperation (and also water). “ _That_ was just _the cherry_ on the top of _the shiatsu sundae_ that was _the fricative disaster_ that was _all of fac page today_. And it was supposed _to be perfect_ — _I made sure_ it’d be perfect!”

Something clicked in Norman’s head. “Wait, _made sure_? But you said treating me to dinner was _to celebrate_ getting an advance on—”

“Sleeping in and homemade waffles for breakfast? _Nope_. _The eggs froze_!” Dipper griped. “Because _apparently_ the fridge’s thermostat got _bumped_ last night, which was enough to turn the fridge into _a fracking freezer_! And we couldn’t just _replace_ the eggs—oh no-no-no!—because there’s _a recall_ due to potential salmonella contamination throughout the state’s farms!”

“And didn’t you say your agent only told you toda—”

“Well then, how about _a relaxing_ walk through Everautumn Park, maybe with some street tacos for a late lunch from that one trucksteraunt you really like? _Nope_!” Working himself into a full rant, Dipper pressed on, “Today, _that park and every park_ in this stupid city’s been _taken over_ either by Portland’s Annual Paintball Battle Royale or by Extreme Yoga-Jogging!”

“Yeah, I remember now, they called you while we were at the par—”

“And we can’t walk _10 Rotterdamed feet_ without your favorite shirt getting splattered like some tragic civilian casualty of the paintball wars! Or swarmed by a fricasseed bunch of leggings-wearing, Whole-Foods-loving, cross-countrying looneys _who’re pogoing around on one leg in flamingo pose or humping across the ground in upward-to-downward facing dog_! Seriously, are there any two _stupider things_ to combine together than _yoga and jogging_?! Plus, those yuppie custards cleaned out _all_ the trucksteraunts!”

“ _Unless_ you were only _pretending_ they called you. So the reservation—”

“But _surely_ despite _all_ those setbacks, we can enjoy a Saturday afternoon marathon of those hammy and/or cheesy and/or corny and/or nutty (making for campy-lunchy) horror films you love at the Statler and Waldorf Memorial Theater, Portland’s premier cinema for communal heckling of B-movies from the 60s, 50s, and 40s?” Dipper took a deep breath, then crescendoed, “ _NOPE_! Because the popcorn machine _fecund broke_ , the fountain drinks _fecund ran out of ice_ , and our seats _fecund smelled like a marijuana ashtray_ because I guess respecting Clean Air Laws is just too damned much to ask from the Stoners™!”

“You made it _a week ago_ , meaning _everything else_ was probably also—”

“ _THEN_ , just to top it all off! _HALFWAY THROUGH_ ‘Alien Space Invaders (Who Are Communists) Invade from the Space of Aliens’, _the fffffucking Feds_ raided the Stat-Wal Theater because _apparently_ it was actually a money-laundering operation for _the fucking Finnish Mafia_ the whole time! Detained us for _so long_ with questions (despite us obviously not being Finnish) that _we almost missed our reservation_ at Flames on Ice (which was botched anyway), _WHERE THE FUCKING FLAMBÉES INCIDENT HAPPENED_ , CAUSING _THIS_!” Dipper raved with a furious gesture at the state of himself and his best friend.

Norman reached over and down to grasp his best friend firmly by the shoulders. “Okay, man, t-tell me the truth now. Did you … Did you p- _plan out_ everything that happened today?”

Dipper looked almost offended by the question. “ _No_! What _I planned out_ was supposed to be _perfect_! Instead, the Elder Gods conspired to ruin absolutely _everything_ , so instead of being perfect, it was a fucking disas—No, _wait_. It was _worse_ than a disaster. _Pompei_ was a disaster. _The Great Chicago Fire_ was a disaster. But _today_?! Today was—”

“W- _why_?” Norman broke in. “ _Why’d_ you plan _all this_ , but then act like it was all, y’know, spur of the moment? Did you, er … even get an advance on your book, like you said?”

“Well …” Dipper looked away, abashed. “No. No, I sorta … made that up as an excuse for us to go out. In fact, uh, my agent might actually kill me if I don’t get them the first draft by next month.”

More than anything, this confession confused Norman. “So you … lied to me?”

“I prefer to think of it more like … deploying strategic misinformation for a noble cause.”

“Hoooookay …” Norman let out a long, slow exhalation. The hope and the yearning were both back, and he was finding it harder and harder to push them both away. “You keep talking about um, … how you pl- _planned out_ today to be ‘perfect’. W- _why_? Why was it, like, _sooo important_ that today be perfect? Why plan out a day with, uh … with what s- _sounds_ in retrospect like a bunch of stuff (unless I’m w- _way_ off base?) that … y’know, _I really like_?”

Dipper no longer looked irate at the universe. No, now (besides soaked) he looked … Maybe nervous? Maybe shy? He actually gulped. “W-well … D’you know what day it is?”

That question took Norman aback. “Um … N-not really? Early September … Uh, is there a holiday or something I’m s-supposed to remember? Like Labor Day, or …?”

Fidgeting with his hands in his pockets, Dipper began to explain. “So, about a month ago, I was sorting through that trunk where I keep all my supernatural resource materials. And I found Journal 3 at the bottom of it. Cool, right? Forgot that’s where it was. And I started, y’know, flipping through it. For nostalgia’s sake—for old times’ sake. Reliving some of those golden, childhood memories, back when things seemed simpler and—”

“You’re babbling again,” Norman informed him (but helpfully).

“Right. Yeah. Sorry. Right … The point is …” Dipper gulped, then stated. “It was 12 years ago today. That we met, I mean.”

“… _Whoa_. Really? _Damn_ …”

“Yeah … 12 years ago, we met. Became friends—”

“Heh! All that stuff with—what was his real name? the Slenderman?—happened! All that c- _crazy_ stuff happened!” Norman reminisced. “Man, I was _sooo_ scared that whole time …”

Dipper chuckled. “Ha! Me, too! But, um … But that got me thinking. About some things, I mean … Well, er, _obviously_ thinking about _some things_. That’s like saying I was _talking_ with _some words_. I mean that got me thinking about my life and … my f-feelings, I guess?”

Norman opened his mouth to reply … then closed it again. He didn’t know what to think, let alone what to say. The hope and the yearning were so overwhelmingly powerful within him, there wasn’t room for words or thoughts, or even any other feelings.

“Got me thinking about, er … past relationships, and why they maybe didn’t work out. Because it wasn’t that _I disliked_ any of the girls I dated,” Dipper felt the need to clearly establish. “They were all smart and funny and sweet and … and _sexy_ , too. _Especially_ Zipporah. Like … _daaaaamn_! Y’know?”

“Yeah, she was kinda smoking,” Norman had to agree (though not with enthusiasm).

“But after the first few weeks with each of them …” Looking off to the middle-distance, Dipper shrugged. “Dunno. Just … never really felt like _my heart_ was in it. Not for the long haul. Always thought it’s ‘cause I get so focused—like, _hyperfixated_ kinda focused—on other things. Research, monster hunts, solving mysteries, even school and classes and writing my books … Relationships and … um, s- _sex_ , too,” he added in an embarrassed half-whisper, “they’re, like, nice _distractions_ from my work … for a while, at least. A fun change of pace, like _a break_ from work or whatever … But never something that inspired that kinda burning passion in songs …”

“I … I know what you mean,” Norman sighed, his tone of voice somber. “Been like _that_ with _all_ the guys I’ve dated, too.”

Surprised, his best friend could only gape, “ _What_? Even _Amal_?”

“… Yep. Even Amal.”

“But he’s _a dreamboat_! 10 out of frackin’ 10 for looks _and_ personality! And he’s _crazy about you_ , too!”

Now it was Norman’s turn to gape at his friend in surprise. “ _You_ think he’s dreamy? But you’re … straight?”

“Pff. It’s, like, _an objective fact_ that Amal’s a dreamboat. Like, even you can recognize Megan Fox is _objectively_ a babe despite not being attracted to women.”

“Y-yeah, okay, fair.”

“You don’t have to personally _find_ someone dreamy _to understand that they are_ dreamy by pretty much all standard metrics. And as for being straight … well …” He shifted uncomfortably before confessing, “Maybe not strictly _100_ %?”

A loaded silence hung over them. Tense, but almost too tense to be broken. Excited like the air is excited when a bolt of lightning is maybe, possibly, perhaps on the verge of striking. For Norman, it almost felt like the hope and the yearning were suffocating him from the inside. Yet he managed to choke out, “D-did you feel … jealous? Of other g-guys … I went out with?”

After a moment’s consideration, Dipper slowly shook his head. “Not _jealous_. Not per se, at least, ‘cause I _always_ wanted you to have a good time— _genuinely_ wanted you to be happy and have fun. What I felt was more like … more like … Heh. Actually, I kinda felt it whenever I was out on a date, too. It was sorta like this … wistfulness, I guess? Like I was, um, m- _missing you_ and _missing out on something_ ‘cause I wasn’t … wasn’t spending time _with you_ … Y’know?”

“Y-yeah. I know … what you mean.”

“So … So _that’s_ why I wanted today to be _perfect_. Wanted to … to show you how much you mean to me. And show you that, like, _I can do_ all that romance and burning passion stuff … f- _for you_ —if it’s _for you_. And I … _I wanna do it_!” Dipper burst out, nervous and desperate and suddenly probably much louder than the situation strictly required. “I wanna do all of it _for you_! And _with you_! And … And I’m pretty sure _I love you_?! Like, _not just_ as a bro or as a bud or even as a best friend, but in, like, _a romantic wa—_ ”

Hope exploded into elation, and Norman seized the shorter young man by his suit lapels to finally do something he’d yearned to do for 12 whole years: he pulled him up into a long and passionate kiss. He might’ve been crying for joy, but he wasn’t sure. Everything was simply falling away from the spot of light and life and happiness that was their united lips. Frozen eggs and paintballs splattering over his shirt and yogis high or low lunging at him and a lack of tacos and smelly chairs and being grilled by the FBI for over an hour and missing half a conversation because of passers-by and fiery, flying fruit sauces and a freezing deluge of water and late busses and what felt like an eternity of unrequited love—absolutely none of that mattered. Nor even exist anymore, not for the one long moment of their first kiss. A perfect moment, a perfect kiss.

When it ended (as it inevitably had to for both to catch their breath), Dipper just stared up at the taller young man in a kind of giggly euphoria. Then, as if suddenly remembering the task at hand, he reached into his pocket, cleared his throat, held out what had been in his pocket, and formally asked, “Norman Babcock, will you be my boyfriend?”

“Pffhahaha! You absolute _dork_!” Norman couldn’t help but laugh. “ _Of course_ I will! Practically been in l-love with you _since we first met_.”

“W-what? _All this time_?”

“Yeah … So, w-what’re these?” he asked, looking at what his now officially boyfriend was offering him. There appeared to be two silver-colored pendants in his hand. Matching ones, with intricate detailing inside a shape that looked familiar, though he couldn’t place why. An eye was in the center of each one.

“They’re, um … They’re called ‘hamsa amulets’,” Dipper explained a little shyly. “They’re supposed to bring good luck and protection from supernatural forces, which I figured, y’know, we could both _use_ given the sorta stuff we do. If you’ve never heard of them, well … It’s an old, Jewish custom.”

“Oh, _cool_! So the shape is … What? A hand with an eye on the palm?”

“Yep. So … Do you like it? For real?”

“Yeah, I do! Here, put mine on me, then I’ll put yours on you!”

Beaming, Dipper did as suggested, giddily explaining, “There wasn’t really a traditional ‘Be my boyfriend?’ sorta gift—wasn’t something like _a ring_ , or whatever—so I thought maybe we could both wear matching hamsas. It’d be cool-looking and unique and practical for us! And I researched the guy who made these ones—”

“Ha! Because _of course_ you did, because you’re _you_ ,” Norman said fondly.

“—and they’re _legit_! Like, he works honest-to-goodness spiritual blessings and magical protection into everything he crafts! _How cool is that_?!”

“P-pretty _damn_ cool!” Norman chuckled as he fastened Dipper’s round his neck. Then, looking up, he made chuckled again. “Look, they’re already working. The bus is _finally_ here.”

“About fricative time. Must be nearly 30 minutes late.”

“… G-given what we did with those 30 minutes, I’m not complaining.”

“Hmm. Good point, I guess.”

As they sat together at the back of the bus, a mischievous smile suddenly spread across Norman’s face. He reached over and causally took hold of Dipper’s hamsa amulet.

“Uh. Norm, m’dude, what are you doing?”

“Just holding my boyfriend’s hand.”

Dipper blinked uncomprehendingly at him for a second. And then it clicked, and he buried his own face in his hands. “ _You fracking_ —You can’t just—I have _a reputation_ to uphold in this town, _and yet_ you pull this kinda crap on me?! _On your own boyfriend_?! I should breakup with you _right here and now_!”

“Sh-shut up and hold my hand back,” Norman teased.

“… ffff _fine_.” But Dipper insisted on taking Norman’s actual hand, muttering as he did, “Shouldn’t put up with this kinda indignity. Lucky I l-love you.”

“… Yeah, I really am. And I love you, too …”


End file.
